12-God Save the Givers
by Chronic Guardian
Summary: Every path starts somewhere, be it twisted or straight. In these little moments, we decide our fate. [Twelve Shots of Summer]


**God Save the Givers**

by Chronic Guardian

**A/N: Written for the Twelve Shots of Summer 2014, final prompt(Nicolas D. Wolfwood).**

The suns always set too fast on the planet Gunsmoke. After yet another blazing day, they would droop down to a point that almost made the rolling sands look beautiful in the evening's vermillion rays. As dusk hurried on into night and the more sober residents of December City lit their lamps to stave off the dark, a stocky man with a mustache and a child walked in from the outskirts where they had been digging graves.

The man was about five-foot-seven and probably half that lengthwise. Nothing all that impressive, but more than enough to tower over the boy who walked with him. He carried his tools of the trade, a shovel and a linen knapsack, over his shoulder, thumping them on his back with every stumpy step.

His name was Olfo.

The boy beside the man boasted a shovel of his own, which was nearly as tall as he was. The tool was stretched across his shoulders, forcing his posture into a hunch as he puffed along after his guardian, his coarse-cut, ebony bangs flopping across his determined squint.

His name was Nicolas.

Olfo wasn't Nicolas's father, or his uncle, or even a distant cousin. He was just the wrong person who happened along when Nicolas had appeared alone outside of December. As Nicolas's rotten luck would have it, Olfo then became his legal guardian.

Olfo was the town's gravedigger and, given the general lack of order on Gunsmoke, he was generally well employed; more well employed than he would like, in fact. So having a spare shovel to help move the dirt (as well as someone to play look out while he inspected the latest resident's pockets) was a great boon to Olfo. Nicolas could've sworn the man had been five sizes slimmer when they'd first met.

"You see, Nicolas," Olfo had told the boy over a tompson sandwich when they got home, "in this world, there are only two kinds of people: the givers and the takers. Either you gonna give what you have or you gonna take what you don't. You wanna live? You gotta be a taker."

Nicolas simply stared at the man, reluctantly soaking in his words and sipping at the glass of rootbeer he'd been given. Clean water was too expensive to indulge in.

"So, look," Olfo rummaged through his knapsack and brought out a metal object that fit easily in his ample palm. "Someone try to take from us, we take right back. Got it?"

Nicolas obediently held out his hands, dipping with the weight of the item dropped into them. His eyes had lied. It wasn't all metal. There was a notched wooden section curved into an elbow angle down one end. Tracing his fingers along the coarse grip, he brought it closer so he could inspect the prize.

"It's a gun," Olfo stated, wiggling his mustache with a beaming smile. "This way, I ain't gonna get caught on the wrong side of the equation. You probably gonna have to clean it before it works, the guy I got it off of seemed kinda iffy."

Yes, indeed he had seemed "iffy". Nicolas wrinkled his nose as he recalled the gnarled, barely-recognizable-as-human corpse they'd buried that day. Placing the weapon on the table, Nicolas quietly excused himself to go wipe his hands off.

"Anyway, go get Ol' Mike to clean it for us an' we can have ourselves a better life, Nicolas," Olfo went on around a mouthful of his sandwich. "We got ourselves a gun, and ain't nobody gonna take from us."

Grabbing a mostly-clean rag from the kitchen, Nicolas silently nodded to his guardian before wrapping the weapon in cloth and walking out the door with it.

By the time he was on the streets, the elusive sunset had already slipped away completely and only the occasional oil lamp that lit his path. Most children would be afraid of walking alone outside in the dark. Nicolas had endured too many nights of supporting Olfo's dead weight on the way home from the bar to think it was all that bad anymore.

At least this way he wasn't breathing the stench of digesting Alcohol with every step.

The workshop and home of Michael, an aging man with a prominent brow and a floppy mustache that hung at the edges, wasn't what one would expect of a gunsmith. For starters, it was located in the annex of December's city church, a building situated on a hill, overlooking the city. While the smell of gun oil never really left the smith, his quarters were often filled with the melodies of gentler men worshiping in chapel and it was hard not to feel safe within the terracotta walls. There was also no safe.

Michael never had much. He worked hard for cheap and his only requirements in a buyer tended to be personal tastes. Even those called outlaws could turn to him if he considered them wronged.

In short, Michael was a giver.

Nicolas pushed the wooden door to the workshop open without preamble. Although this was the first time he was visiting the gunsmith on business, the two were rather well acquainted, and on good terms. They saw each other on the Sunday services when Olfo wasn't too busy to attend. When they passed each other in the market place, Michael would smile and slip him a wax candy. Nicolas wouldn't smile. He never smiled. But he did feel less alone in the company of the gunsmith.

"Hey, hey!" Michael grinned from his workbench as Nicolas strode onto concrete floor. "Little Nicolas! Been good?"

Nicolas nodded and held up the package he'd been sent with.

The old man raised an eyebrow. "Mmm? What've ya got there? Here, let us see it."

The gun was obligingly laid on the table and Nicolas waited while Michael observed it and hroomed and hrummed over the various damaged mechanisms.

"Olfo's?" Michael finally asked, inspecting the chamber with one eye closed.

Nicolas paused a moment before quickly nodding again. Michael could probably figure out all he needed to know from that.

"Huh," Michael's face flashed through a wry, knowing smile. "Not often that a gravedigger needs protection."

"..."

"...You take good care of it; alright, Nicolas?"

Nicolas replied with a questioning frown.

"Not being clear, am I?" Michael said sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his head. "I guess what I mean is... Well, it's up to you to make sure this gun gets used right. Lots of people see guns as a way to take from people. Y'know, like its just a setup of givers and takers, and you gotta be one or the other. So—"

"—So if you wanna live, you gotta be a taker," Nicolas finished, nodding solemnly. Olfo's words felt raw and bitter in his throat. The boy tried to wash the feeling down with a sticky lump of saccharine saliva.

"...Yeah," Michael murmured, giving him an odd look. After a moment though, Michael shook his head and went on. "Look, Nicolas. In this world, it's easy to think that the only person you gotta look out for is you, or that the only way you live is by taking what the next guy's got. Now, I don't know if I've been a perfect man—"

"You go to every Sunday service," Nicolas pointed out dutifully.

"Sunday services ain't what God's after," Michael said flatly, working his jaw a little. "I've heard enough of 'em to know."

Nicolas shifted a glance aside and waited for the subject to pass. In some ways-no, in a _lot_ of ways-he really didn't know how to approach the subject of what God, an all-powerful master of the universe, a being who could create scores of stars with less than the blink of an eye, would want out of humans. Did he want to take their service just because he could? To toy with their lives because they were there? On a planet like Gunsmoke, it was hard to imagine a good, or even indifferent, motivation for an involved deity.

Unless... humans were just so filthy they weren't worth saving anymore.

Nicolas could believe that.

The raiding parties who killed civilians for so much as a funny look. The governors and mayors who lined their pockets while their towns wilted in the desert sun.

Olfo, who took what wasn't his just to make it by.

Michael, though... Michael was different. Nicolas watched the old gunsmith curiously as he disassembled the gun on his work table.

"God made man in his own image, so they say," the man went on. "He created man to be a gardener of his land, to be a pioneer into his creation."

But even if there were men like Michael, there were so many who weren't; men who lied and cheated and stole. Men like Olfo. Maybe they didn't think they were bad; but in order to survive, they took what they needed to and left the bones for the vultures. They weren't gardeners, they were scavengers.

"...We're nothing like God," Nicolas rehearsed slowly. "Not only are we imperfect, but we're sometimes driven to become the devil himself."

Michael paused his work to give the boy a measuring look. "What's a kid like you doin' sayin' stuff like that?"

"Olfo says it."

"Yeah? Well, Olfo should have a little more faith."

"Faith in what? God?" It was a pretty vague requirement, to say nothing of the difficulty of it.

"...I guess," Michael shrugged while running polishers over the rusted elements of the gun. "You can't live a life by just taking, see? Sooner or later, you run out of people to take from. People need to build each other up, to trust that they're not just there for the goods. If people gave to each other without worrying about what they get back in return, you can bet we'd all be a lot happier."

"I've seen people like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Usually they're the ones we're burying."

"Oh," Michael wriggled his mustache agitatedly before replying, "That's 'cuz they ain't got nobody lookin' out or them."

The boy stared on in silence as he tried to puzzle out what "right answer" Michael was looking for. With Olfo it was easy, all Nicolas had to do was nod and obey. The gunsmith actually made him think through the situation. Nicolas sighed and slumped down into a chair beside Michael. "But... they're good people, right?" he asked, hoping he'd gotten that part right at least.

"Good guys don't always win in this life, Nicolas."

"Why not? How do you know?"

"Because I... Um..."

Nicolas waited, then leaned forward on his chair. It squeaked his query for him as he leaned his elbows in the table.

Michael sighed and hung his head. "I used to be the one shootin' em."

The reply stopped Nicolas dead in his tracks.

"I'm not gonna try to defend it to a kid like you, just leave it at the facts: I was wrong, and I ain't doin' it no more."

"...So why be good?"

"Because..." Michael swallowed a grimace before continuing. "Sometimes, you've gotta do good and just hope that it makes a difference. I wish the world were run by good people, and that every good deed was repaid. But humanity just ain't like that yet, Nicolas. Sometimes, it seems like all you got is your faith that what you did was right. It's easy to be a taker, to give yourself life and not rely on other people to give you mercy. But the world's an awfully small, sad place through the eyes of a man who believes that.

"In a way, you could say we're getting what we deserve. Just about every guy I know has screwed up enough to warrant the kinda life we have here. But, just like always, we still have those two choices of what to be: a giver or a taker."

"And if you wanna live, you gotta be a taker," Nicolas again finished, putting his elbows on the table to prop up his face. For the first time ever, Nicolas found himself wishing he was back with Olfo instead.

"Maybe so," Michael admitted. "But if you don't wanna live alone, you're gonna have to learn to look beyond that. Bein' a giver ain't an easy life, but the world needs more people like 'em if it's ever gonna get anywhere."

"... What do you think Olfo'll use the gun for?"

"Don't know," Michael replied casually. "And, frankly, don't care. This gun ain't his, it's yours."

"...But Olfo..."

"Did Olfo pay for this gun?"

Nicolas frowned. "...No."

"Did somebody give it to him?"

"No."

"Then I'm giving it to you," Michael said decisively. "Use it to give freedom to the weak and salvation to the persecuted. You've got potential, Nicolas. You've got sharp eyes and good reflexes. I'd bet you'd make a decent gunslinger. But you still need to decide if you wanna be a giver or a taker."

"Decide if I wanna die or live, huh?"

"If that's the way you wanna look at it, I guess," the man drooped lower in his chair. "Just... try and remember: you can either try to take care of everything yourself and forget everyone else, or you can set the example of what you want to see in the world. You could be the guy God sent to save the givers, the guy who gives himself to protect people."

Nicolas looked himself over before quirking an incredulous eyebrow. "Me?"

"Maybe not now," Michael agreed. "But... someday. Someday, if you haven't gotten so tired that you can't tell good and evil anymore. Don't lose sight of that path, Nicolas. Remember why you were given this."

"...So it's ready?"

Michael gave a small, tired smile and shook his head. "No, not quite. Come back for it tomorrow and I'll have it ready for you then. In the meantime, you tell yourself what you're gonna grow up to be."

"I..." Nicolas paused. He knew what Michael wanted him to say. He knew the path of hardship the man wanted him to walk. He also knew the "security" of the life Olfo led. He shuddered. Just thinking about it made him feel dirty.

But he didn't want to die. A part of him even said that living in selfish filth was better than death. At least you knew where you were that way. What happened when you died? Did you just disappear? Nicolas licked his lips and tried to think it over.

"Take your time," Michael said gently, patting the boy on the head.

Nicolas nodded and got up. He thanked Michael for his help before heading out the door onto the dark streets of December. All the way home, lamps flicked and wavered as they gave light to his path.

Olfo didn't greet him at the door, he was asleep, drooling on the couch. Nicolas sighed and looked back over his shoulder. In the distance, he could see the light in Michael's workshop still shining out above the rest of the city.

Silently, the boy said a prayer for the man in the workshop, as well as the man the gun would belong to.

_God, save the givers_.

Fin

**Author's Note: **

**While it was tempting to reflect on where the anime leaves this character, I figured looking into his largely unexplored early life would be more original. Writing a younger, less masked Wolfwood was a challenge, as was coming up with characters who influenced his early life. Other than the knowledge that Wolfwood eventually shot his guardian, I didn't have much to work with.**

**The biggest problem was deciding upon the scope of the story and wrapping it upon within that scope without a bleak ending. Wolfwood is a character who faces life long struggle, so setting up the prelude to that struggle while still giving hope was a difficult balancing act.**

**In the end though, I feel at peace with this as my final offering in the Twelve Shots of Summer challenge. Check out the Twelve Shots of Summer Community to see the rest of our labors (our meaning the TSoS group as a whole, not just the royal me) and celebrate with us our exploits therein.**

"_**May you go with God. Oh, and thanks for the apple."**_

_**-Wolfwood**_

**Regards,**

**-CG**


End file.
